


never enough

by BlackJacketsandPens



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: F/M, can't stop the softe, shameless shippy fluff, soft and fluffy and good because i want soft and fluffy up in here, this is an inherently angsty ass ship and we know it, though can't stop the angst either and im not sorry for it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-17 08:17:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20617871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackJacketsandPens/pseuds/BlackJacketsandPens
Summary: you're the song that is my heart / and it echoes deep and true / but if time should take me far / I'll sing til I find youEmet-Selch/WoL drabbles, in a loose chronological order.





	1. first sight

**Author's Note:**

> did someone ask for soft and fluffy wol/emet shit? no? well too bad
> 
> wol is my black mage alt, brona corcrain @ sargatanas, my good girl ( you can find her on tumblr @arthachbroin too if u want, these are all posted there as well )

It was strange, Brona thought, hearing the voice behind them— loud and carrying, forceful and with a strength of personality to it that you don’t hear very often on either side of their fight— Ascians…she couldn’t recall any one of them who sounded quite like that. (It had to be an Ascian, obviously; who else would pop up randomly out of nowhere to taunt or harass them, and in the middle of their own home base at that? Not many others could do that, or would.)

Oh, sure, Lahabrea had been _loud_. But there wasn’t much to that loudness, just— it was hard to put into thought. It was a hollow sort of thing, like there wasn’t much to him beyond the volume and force of his voice. Igeyorhm was the same way. Like their whole personality could be described as “evil” or “Ascian”. Nabriales had…had some personality, she supposed, but it was mostly “arrogant and annoying,” so she wasn’t sure that counted.

But that voice? That sounded like a_ person_. Enough so that she almost doubted her initial guess of Ascian. 

They all turned as one, and she got her first look at him then.

Her doubts only deepened the longer she looked at the man who had appeared behind them. He wore no robes, no mask. Didn’t hide at all, was just— himself, there, no concealments like any other Ascian. She wouldn’t immediately call him handsome, really, either; he was older, perhaps in his forties (old enough to have a shock of white going through his wine-colored hair, at least), and high cheekbones and a prominent nose gave his face a bit too many harsh angles and lines to say he was _handsome_, though she’d certainly admit to it being appealing in its own way. She wasn’t sure why, but for some reason she thought Ascians tended towards prettier vessels. Add to their charisma, perhaps? In any case, that was a bit out of the realm of the expected. That and the shadows beneath his pale gold eyes, the ones she could see from where she stood several fulms away, the way his mouth seemed pursed in a permanent frown, the lines of exhaustion on his face etched deep, the way his thin and expressive eyebrows knit together as he stared at them (at _her?_).

He seemed to defy expectations of what an Ascian was. Too human. Too open. Too real, with the visible weariness written into his features. Was he an Ascian, really? Maybe she’d guessed wrong. Hells, he had a Garlean third eye. Maybe that was it— but if that was the case how did he get to the First? No, he had to be. But— how? 

The doubts were assuaged soon enough when he himself admitted to being an Ascian, a lazy swipe of a gloved hand across his face showing the gleaming red symbol, one she didn’t recognize but that blazed over his features nonetheless. So he _was_ an Ascian. Somehow, defying all he was— he was too real to be one of them, too alive— that was it, she realized. He was _alive_. A living, breathing man, rather than the dead husks of darkness the others had seemed to be. The way he moved, the way he spoke…alive. Voice going up and down in a frenzied cadence, at once speaking a rush of words in one breath, stopping to inhale sharply, at another time shouting enough to scrape his voice rough and sharp, and then right after smoothing it over and smiling, polite but condescending, visibly amused at all of them and not at all caring about the glares and threats aimed at him. The way his hands danced in the air, pointing and shrugging and gesturing widely, like he was an actor upon a stage.

There was something so…vivid about him, alive and present, a blaze of something she could never describe as light — he was an Ascian no matter what he seemed, after all — but…something. Fire, perhaps, she thought in wry amusement as he excused himself with nary an apology. She certainly felt like a very stupid moth.

He was an _Ascian_, she reminded herself again. But even so…he had been so different. His gestures, his voice, his personality, alive and real and so much more than any of the others…the shadows beneath his eyes, how exhausted he seemed, the noticeable slump to his shoulders that pulled his height down lower than it should be…the way he had _looked_ at her as he’d offered his knowledge and strength, right into her eyes, head canted to the side as he seemed to look right through her, all the way to her soul, her and her alone…

He was an Ascian, and yet…she found herself drawn to him. Oh, she didn’t trust him, this Emet-Selch, of course not. She wasn’t stupid. But somehow, for some reason…she wanted him to press his offer. She wanted to see him again. To know more about this— this Ascian who seemed so different from the others. To know why he was so tired, to know why he’d looked at her like that. Maybe it was unwise— no, it was obviously unwise, but…she still wanted it. 

More the fool her, she supposed, but…all the same.


	2. flowers

It could be late, or it could be early— with the sky the way it is, Brona’s not actually sure. It could be midnight, and it was still bright as noon. Though the trees of the greatwood did mitigate some of the glare from the sky, it was still immensely bright. Which was fine with her, it helped. She should probably still be in Slitherbough, resting up for more research and study tomorrow to get into Yx’Maja, but…when was she going to get another chance like this? This was her first bit of free time since they got to Rak’tika, and she was going to make the most of it.

At least, she reasoned, she wasn’t going too _far_. Just around the southern section of the woods outside Slitherbough, the way they’d entered. (One of the Blessed had told her there were some nasty folks to the north, so she’d decided to err on the side of caution.) There was plenty to see here, though, both by the lake and the roots of those giant trees, and by the more forested part, and most importantly….a hells of a lot of plants. Flowers and roots and grasses, and that’s what she was looking for.

They’d had to drag her out of the Hortorium in the Crystarium at least four times by now, and Il Mheg had made her nearly want to move in immediately— she’d nearly had to be picked up and carried out of the area near Lydha Lhran, and she’d been yelled at twice for nearly climbing over the hedges in the gardens of Dohn Mheg. It…okay, so it was a habit of hers, really, she’d needed carried out of Mocianne’s and she’d been yelled at for stopping to stuff flowers in her bag that Sephirot had generated…but who could blame her?! She was an alchemist specializing in botanicals, she loved that stuff, and any new or rare or unusual things she just had to collect. And _none_ of this was native to the Source! When would she get this chance again? 

So here she was, bag open, trekking through the greatwood and stopping every so often at a patch of greenery or flowers to examine and collect them, carefully noting down in her journal every detail she could, pressing a sample within the pages as she went. Until…

She rounded the trunk of a big tree, as south as she could manage to get without hitting some cliffs, and stopped dead, blinking. Was that…? “Emet?” She said aloud, bewildered into speaking. It was! She moved closer, unable to tear her eyes away from the sight. He was sitting on the grass, back up against another tree, tucked neatly into a corner made by the tree and one of its roots so that he was entirely in its shade, hands folded in his lap and head bowed. It took a moment of staring, especially as she got closer, but then— “You’re _sleeping?!” _She yelped, covering her mouth with a hand at the volume, but he didn’t seem to stir, chest rising and falling peacefully. She stared at the sight a moment more, uncertain of what to do, but…hells. It couldn’t hurt, could it? There was a huge patch of flowers she hadn’t seen yet right beside where he was, and she still needed to go through her notes properly, compare them to Il Mheg and the Hortorium…so she sighed, and shrugged, and moved to sit against the tree beside him.

She’d quite lost track of time, sitting there and sorting through her notes, scribbling in them and murmuring absently to herself, when she heard a bone-cracking yawn next to her….and then silence. She knew to wait, though, and true enough, a few moments later came that familiar lively voice, sounding incredibly bemused. “And what _are_ you doing?”

“Cataloging plants,” she told him matter of factly, not looking up from her journal, waving the sample she’d taken from the bush beside her — a bright red flower, looking a little like a lily — at him. “What does it look like I’m doing? I didn’t wake you up, so it shouldn’t be a problem.” She paused, and then she did turn to him, a wry twist to her lips and quirk to her brows that she knew was daring him to be offended. “So this is what you ran off so suddenly to do,” she noted. “I didn’t realize a nap was the cure to boredom, but you learn new things every day.”

She…didn’t expect his reaction, if she was honest. His own wry smirk faded off his face, and he blinked at her, lips slightly parted, as if her answer had genuinely caught him off-guard. For a moment, it felt like a veil lifted, and the eyes that bore into hers were filled with genuine emotion— surprise and some strange kind of recognition, and something that _couldn’t _be pain, and yet…and yet…but he shook his head slightly and that vanished, smirk restored as he reached for the flower in her hand. His fingers brushed hers as he did so, plucking it from her grasp, and she swallowed a gasp as the touch startled her, an electric sensation prickling up her arm. She’d never felt that before. How— how odd. And with _him? _Why?

“Cataloging plants,” he echoed, twirling the flower in his fingers, voice somehow a little distant as he stared at it. “Is that a hobby of yours, hero? You must be quite devoted to it if you would risk wandering around alone out here, let alone _deigning_ to sit yourself so close to _me_.” His eyes flickered up to meet hers, and her raised one very expressive eyebrow. “Bringer of Chaos, former Emperor of Garlemald, untrustworthy bastard or whatever else that excitable young gunman of yours has called me behind my back…et cetera, et cetera, and all that.”

“Well, you were sleeping,” Brona pointed out, reaching to pluck the flower right back out of his fingers and almost relishing the way he startled slightly at her daring. “I’m fairly certain Ascians can’t bring much chaos in their sleep. And maybe I was keeping an eye on you to make sure you behaved, did you think of that?” She smiled at him, an audacious idea coming to her, and she shifted position to hide what her hands were doing as she closed her notebook and reached for the bush again. She already had collected her samples from it — this one had been going to be pressed (and it was, now) but…hm. Let’s see if she could pull this off. She didn’t wait for him to answer the question, either, continuing to speak as if to distract him from her motions. “And I would say it’s a little more than a hobby— I might be a mage, true, but one does need something to fall back on when setting things afire doesn’t make you gil. Alchemy and botanicals is my occupation, I’d say, and my passion besides. It has been since I was small.” Which was about 1500 years farther back than she was sure he could guess, if he wasn’t aware of her possession (which he didn’t seem to be so far), but she wasn’t about to say that. “So…I’ll be honest, wandering about an unfamiliar forest looking for interesting specimens is the _least_ dangerous thing I’ve done in the name of my passion, and that’s only counting the past week or so.”

That strange look crossed his face again, at her words, that sort of…unmasked expression of startled recognition and pain, but it was gone again just as quickly, and he raised his eyebrows again at her. “Oh?” He asked, and she could swear there was something…something in his voice that wasn’t there before, a smoothing of some kind of edge, a sincerity to his words, a softness to his tone. “Do tell. What _have_ you gotten up to?”

She couldn’t help it— her own smile widened, growing less teasing and more sincere. “Well,” she began. “Would you consider stopping in the middle of fighting a Lightwarden to collect the plants her magic generated upon the arena floor ‘reckless and dangerous’? Because my companions certainly did! I mean, it isn’t the first time I’ve done something like that,” she mused. “And a primal isn’t _too_ different from a Lightwarden, I suppose…but really, when would I _ever_ get the chance to see those again once we killed her?” She shrugs aimlessly, still at work on her plan. “And I suppose trying to wander off to pick flowers from the Fuath’s gardens was a bad idea, too, considering they ended up trying to drown us, but…it was so pretty! And it wasn’t like we ever planned to deal with them again! Why wouldn’t I take the oppor…tunity…?” She trailed off, blinking. Well, that was…that was…something.

He was _laughing_.

He was laughing, and it wasn’t at all the mad cackle of Lahabrea, the arrogant nasally chuckle of Nabriales. It was…mortal. A mortal laugh, head thrown back and hands on his knees, laughing hard enough that his shoulders shook with it. She watched him, entranced, as he bowed his head, wiping at his eyes and smiling, visibly and sincerely amused, something so— real, in it, so genuine, nothing at all like the other Ascians. That’s what he was, she had to remind herself firmly, an Ascian. Seven Rejoinings, she reminded herself, and the Garlean Empire besides. And yet…he smiled at her, visibly amused, though that pain was back in his eyes, a sadness at the edges. “You,” he said, and there was something in his voice, too, that she couldn’t place. “Are completely and utterly _mad_. Has anyone told you that before, hero?”

“Oh, repeatedly,” she told him, smiling, though she couldn’t quite manage to let it reach her eyes, seeing the sadness in his. Why was he so sad? Why was _she_ making him so sad? What was he seeing? “It’s true, I won’t deny it, I’m quite mad. But sanity is rather overrated, anyway, and besides, I don’t think a sane woman would be doing this whole ‘Warrior of Light’ business. I mean, I chose to, I suppose, but that’s rather the point. No one sane would choose this line of work, and yet here I am.” She shrugged. “But really, _someone_ has to, and if no one sane would want to, that just leaves us mad people.” 

Emet-Selch blinked at her a moment, and that sadness didn’t go away; something almost bitter joined it, though, and she had to wonder. “You’re probably right,” he mused, an edge creeping back into his voice, and she found she didn’t like that. “No one sane _would_. That should tell you something, though, shouldn’t it? What sort of ‘job’ this really is, _hero_.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” she told him. “I’ve lost enough by now to know that. But my point stands. If I don’t do it, no one will. And then where will we be?” She hated, then, the pained look that flashed across his face, pained and somehow— somehow like he’d had this conversation before, and it was going the same way. But…her plan was finished, and now seemed the perfect time to enact it. With a quick motion, she moved, the flower crown she’d braided in her lap coming up as she reached over to drop it daringly right upon his head, letting it tilt jauntily as she moved her hands back. “There,” she said. “I think I like this crown far better than the one Varis took from you. I should hope you didn’t design that, it’s _hideous_.”

The two of them stared at each other for a long moment, still and quiet and stretched out, and for a brief, dizzying second, Brona could _swear_ he was about to lean in and kiss her, his hands even twitching up like he meant to grab her arms and drag her close like she could help him climb up from a place he was drowning in, eyes trained on her face like— there was something desperate in them, and no one had _ever_ looked at her like that, like they _needed_ her (her and her alone, like she was the only one in the world, or the most important person in it), and…she thought distantly that if he _did_ kiss her, she wouldn’t pull away. She didn’t think she could if she wanted to.

But he didn’t. Instead, his hands dropped, and he stood abruptly, reminding her again that even slouched with a weight she was only beginning to glimpse he was rather tall. Looming over her like that, he was…more an Ascian than ever before, for the first time, less this strange and unexpected mortal man claiming to be a monster and more like that mortal was a facade. But the pain still haunting the back of his eyes was real, and that grounded it. “Your thoughts on my fashion sense are duly noted,” he said, and his voice was quiet and tight, like a cord stretched to breaking. “But I believe I’ve had enough of small talk for the nonce. Perhaps this time I’ll be able to sleep in peace, unbothered by _heroes and their opinions_.” 

That said, he bowed, half mocking and half with something else in it, and for one last brief moment their eyes met. “Go rejoin your companions,” he said, and his voice was that strange soft thing again, fleetingly. “They’ll be cross if they catch you fraternizing with the enemy.” And then he was gone in a ripple of darkness.

Gone, and the flower crown was settled neatly, almost gently, on her head instead. _“It suits you better anyway, my dear.” _She heard, or thought she heard, in that language beyond languages that she’d heard the Ascians speak before. And then she was alone. 

There was something funny in that, the former emperor of Garlemald giving her a crown, even if it was one she’d made for him. Did that make her an empress? She laughed at the thought, gathering her things and packing them back into her bag as she stood. That…that had been the strangest encounter, and it didn’t help her decide how she felt about him at all. He kept— being nothing like what an Ascian should be, and still so very much an Ascian. Kept drawing her in like a moth to a bonfire, and she…almost didn’t mind. Maybe she should hate herself for being so easily led, but…

But the pain, the sadness in his eyes when he looked at her those brief moments, the softness in his voice. That _laugh_. That frozen moment when she swore he had been about to kiss her. The flower crown, crimson and bright, that sat atop her head as she made her way back to Slitherbough, the crown she meant to preserve and save, tucking it neatly somewhere to keep forever…

Oh, gods _damn_ it. This was going to be complicated. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes she really is that much of a horrible gremlin botanist she's not sorry at all for stopping the dps to go pick flowers you can handle it for two minutes, tank
> 
> they're terrible together i love them


	3. mischief

If she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes, Brona wouldn’t quite be sure she could believe it. She knew well what it took to pull someone out of the Lifestream— they all did. They knew how much it had taken to rescue Y’shtola last time, and even then, it was…a monumental task. To find a spot with enough of an aetherial presence, to have a connection to her, to have something with enough sheer power to pull her from the river of aether…it had been dumb luck that they’d managed it last time. 

And yet…Emet-Selch had— _literally_ in a snap, he’d pulled her free. Just the snap of a finger, and she was there. And he’d clothed her! How did you just create clothes out of thin air, and so perfectly accurate, too? The attention to detail that required, let alone— not even in Mhach had she ever heard of that being possible. And yet he’d done it almost lazily, like it was as easy as calling a spark of flame was for a black mage, or as easy as a conjurer’s first cure spell. Was that something unique to him, or were all Ascians capable of something like that? And for that matter…the lamp he’d given her. A pretty little glass orb, or it _seemed_ like glass; she’d dropped it while searching and it hadn’t shattered, so perhaps it was something stronger. But it was clear and smooth, a sphere with a flickering red-gold light within, a soft warmth when you held it in your hand…it was delicate, but sturdy, and he hadn’t seemed to ask for it back, so she simply tucked it next to the crown of crimson flowers in her bag. Perhaps it was wrong of her to keep such things, to treasure them even, but…well. It felt a little naughty, but she was allowed once indulgence, wasn’t she? She knew better than to trust him, she told herself. She knew better than to start doubting her mission. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t…be interested. Be almost fond.

She scuffed her boot in the path of bright blue flowers leading back to Fanow, eyeing him where he still lingered a few fulms away. Perhaps wondering why she was still there, too? The others had already begun to head back. Well, she wondered the same thing…no, that was a silly thing. She knew at least one reason she lingered.

She approached, unafraid, and his head swung lazily to watch her; he stood so tiredly, she noted. Arms at his sides, shoulders slumped, head halfway bowed. You didn’t stand like that without something weighing you down. No other Ascian did, either, though, so…what was he carrying that they didn’t? Either way, she met his gaze, holding it, and smiled. “Thank you,” she told him, voice soft and sincere. “I mean that. Thank you for saving her.” A pause, and her lips twitched into something less gentle and more amused. “And for saving her _dignity_, I might add. I daresay Runar might have fainted if you hadn’t preserved Y’shtola’s modesty as you did.”

By now, she thought, she was used to that odd sort of sad-pained-recognition that flickered across his face once again as she spoke. Whatever she reminded him of, it hurt him, and that was…more human by far than any Ascian she’d seen. That and all these other little things, his behavior and his actions…he may not be trustworthy, but he was _different_. And even if the others didn’t think so, she thought it was…worth not trying to chase him off. Worth investigating further. “Well,” he said in response, crossing his arms. “It was only polite of me to do so. Can’t have anyone running around in the altogether, after all. Quite undignified.” 

“I suppose so,” she says, smiling wider. “More or less undignified than being caught napping under a tree by a trio of Viis warriors, though?” The laugh that rang out next to her, still just as real and normal than the last, was gratifying, and she found herself unable to _stop_ smiling. “I suppose heroes and their opinions didn’t find you, but a few bunny girls certainly did!” 

“You hush!” Emet-Selch said, indignant, but when she glanced at him slyly out of the corner of her eyes he was smiling as well, lips twitching in amusement. “Is your tongue always this pert, my dear, or is this just to spite me?”

She couldn’t help it— she laughed, too, now. “Oh, my tongue can be _quite_ sharp when I choose it to be, it’s not just you,” she teased him. “But really, I do hope your feelings aren’t _that_ easily bruised! I would think a little better of a big, scary Bringer of Chaos than to be so challenged by one smart-mouthed mortal.”

Another laugh, and she caught him smiling this time, a real and genuinely amused smile, though that pained sadness still lingered at the edges of his eyes. “Oh, I’ve dealt with mortals with far sharper tongues than yours,” he said. “You don’t scare me. But then again, those didn’t know what I was. _Their_ tongues usually still when they find out— you, however, don’t seem to care! Fascinating, really. Or quite foolish, I’m not entirely sure.” 

“Perhaps both,” Brona replied with a slight shrug. “I mean, certainly, you’re _very_ impressive, and I can’t think of anyone else who could _possibly_ pull off what you just did, but I’m not scared.” They were walking, she’d noticed, ambling slowly along back to Fanow, and…it had started to rain. It was hard to notice with the Light burning above them and the trees, but she could see puddles along the sides of the path, the small dips in the ground filling with water, and— oh, this would get her into so much trouble, but somehow…somehow it felt like something almost necessary. “Should I be? You’re the one offering cooperation and getting along.”

“Oh, good, you’ve been paying attention,” he replied, still visibly amused. “And at least _one_ of you seems receptive to my repeated offers! But that’s not to say you shouldn’t be afraid of me.” His eyes flashed and he leaned into her suddenly, taking her off guard and even more so when a gloved hand reached to cup her face. “Like you said. I_ am _an Ascian. Regardless of my methods, my goal is still the same as it always has been. To Rejoin all the shards to what they should be.” His voice was soft, a whisper against her skin, and their noses very nearly touched. “So it’s up to _you_, my dear. Do you think you should be frightened of something like me, no matter what outstretched hand I offer?”

She could feel her heart beating loud in her chest, but all the same she felt her arms coming up, hands brushing against the fur lining of his coat. “I think,” she began slowly, quietly. “That it would be wise to be at least a _little_ wary.” That was the truth, and she knew it. She couldn’t deny it. And yet… “But,” she continued, a smile returning to her face. “Afraid? No. Not afraid.” For a moment she considered telling him the truth— that she could never be afraid, not when she could see so clearly the pain that haunted his edges, the exhaustion and sadness with a cause she doubted she could ever truly understand. Not when he looked at her sometimes like he was seeing something too familiar to bear. Not when he was the most mortal, the most real Ascian she’d ever met, not when she was almost desperate to know more. “Besides…” She continued grinning widely…and pushing him hard into the puddle behind him, sending him tumbling backwards into the shallow water. “How can I be scared when you look like a wet cat, o big bad Ascian?”

He blinked at her, open-mouthed with shock as he sat in the puddle, and she couldn’t help it — he _did_ look like a wet cat, indignant and stunned, and she started laughing helplessly, a smile on her face. Giggling as hard as she was, she didn’t notice magic brushing against her, and so she was too late to realize— she felt her feet lift out from under her, and then she was toppling forward with a splash into the puddle along with him. She squealed, stunned, and then flushed as she hears laughter above her. “And now _you_ look like wet cat, my dear,” he said above her, gloating and smug. “My, you’re right, it’s hard to be frightened of the legendary Ascian-slayer when she’s dripping wet.” 

She looked up at him, opening her mouth to say something indignant, and then her voice died in her throat. They’re both in a spot where the canopy of trees is nonexistent, hence the puddle, and they’ve been soaked through in moments— Emet-Selch sat above her (making her _far_ too aware she’s fallen right in his lap) smirking, his hair wet and in his face, and it’s— _oh no_, she thought helplessly. _That’s not fair_. “Bastard,” she managed, shoving at him as she tried to sit up, and he smirks wider, catching her hands.

“Now, now, you started it,” he scolded, still smiling, and for a moment she thought she saw the pain ebb, something almost wondering in its place, surprised at himself. It was a fascinating little journey. “Don’t blame me for a little revenge. It’s only fair.” 

“Only _fair?!”_ She yelped, though she was still smiling herself. “You—” She cut herself off, finding herself unable to continue; her cheeks burned, and he was so _close_ to her, and his hands were still wrapped around her wrists, a loose grip holding them above his head, and…she _was_ close…she could almost, if she so chose…that silence came upon them again, that taut quiet in which both of them stared at each other, faces close, almost— and again, she knew, she _knew_ if he closed that distance, that she would let him. It was a dizzying thought, it was the first time and it was now. No one had ever _wanted_ to kiss her. All the men she had been with, every one of them, had taken and taken what she’d given so freely, and never cared to return it. She was just someone to be devoted to them, someone to use. She’d understood that, even if it had left that hole in her still unfilled, so…so— to sit in this endless frozen moment and be so very sure he was about to kiss her…even if she couldn’t possibly understand _why_, it was overwhelming. She— she_ wanted _it. She wanted to be wanted, to be needed like this, like the way he looked at her with that sadness, that pained recognition.

Gods, but wasn’t that selfish? So desperate for that sort of love she’d even take it from an Ascian, even if it was this strange and fleeting and inexplicable thing she couldn’t name or describe…this strange, fascinating man who seemed so unlike an Ascian, like he was one in name only— she _couldn’t_, she knew that, and yet…and yet…

“Brona! Hurry up!” 

The voice — Thancred’s, but distant, not close enough to see her but close enough to be heard — snaps the moment, and Emet-Selch lets her go immediately, taking her by the waist and righting her back on the path. “Run along now,” he said, face and voice closed off again. “You’re expected. I’ll be along, I suppose. They’ll wonder if I’ve gone off to make mischief if I’m not.”

“….alright,” Brona replied, almost disappointed, but she smiled at him anyway. “Don’t take too long, now, or we’ll be off by the time you get there, considering how excited Y’shtola is to see the Ravel. Then you’ll be stuck all alone with the bunny girls.” 

He snorted, something coming back into his features, and swatted the back of her shoulder gently. “Go on, hero,” he said. “Shoo, shoo.” 

She rolled her eyes at him, but the smile was more genuine now, and with a teasing gesture mocking his wave she headed back down the path to Fanow, lost in thought. She didn’t _want_ to feel like this about him, about that fascinating bastard and his inexplicable feelings, the way he looked at her, the way he— ugh. Ugh! She needed to stop thinking about him. So she would! She would. He was an Ascian, their enemy, she wouldn’t…she wouldn’t. No more. 

No more…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, they are absolutely terrible together and i love them
> 
> get you a girl who isn't afraid to bully you when ur a big scary ascian, pushing into lakes or puddles optional


	4. pomegranate

Already long days seemed endlessly longer when there was no night. And the past few days had been…incredibly long. To deal with the attack on the Crystarium, and then the entire business in Amh Araeng — though the stress of _that_ was Thancred and Ryne more so than the Lightwarden — and then finally dealing with Eulmore only to watch Vauthry fly away to Mt. Gulg…it was a hells of a lot to process.

At least the Eulmorans were kind enough now to give them all rooms to rest in overnight (so to speak), and then they and the volunteers would head out to the Ladder in the ‘morning’ to get it working. Brona could appreciate that. It gave her some time to be alone — Ardbert was probably still thinking about things, she hadn’t seen him for a while — and…she needed that. There had really been no time to process their last conversation with Emet-Selch, and she desperately needed that time, now, time to…come to terms with what she’d suspected all along.

What he was seeing, when he looked at her….that sad, pained recognition in his eyes that would flicker in and out in the moments grasped just between the two of them…she had an answer for it. It had begun in the Ravel, when he told them the truth of what the Ascians were, the truth of what Hydaelyn and Zodiark were. An ancient civilization, lost to the two..the two _primals’_ battle, after having been saved from an apocalypse only thanks to the summoning of Zodiark…that was hard enough to imagine, but to hear that the Ascians were the only survivors of that first world, that Emet-Selch one of three souls that had not been split among the shards when the sundering occurred? It was horrifying. Oh, not what she was. She was quite confident in her own identity, even knowing— even knowing she was only a fraction of the soul she had once been. That person was gone, she’s sure, even if they were to make the soul whole again. All that remains is her, is Brona. But…

But gods, how could one man bear all that? Eons of solitude, of despair, of grief and mourning and a loss that no one could ever fathom? Having lived through much of the War of the Magi, she’s no stranger to nigh-apocalypses, but— to save your world only to have it shattered? Oh, to know that they’re tempered made so much more sense, but…even tempered, he was so mortal, so real, so _sad_…it was like what she was seeing was the man beneath, the pieces of who he had once been, in those moments. 

And…what he was seeing, was who _she_ had once been. She had suspected, when he spoke of things in the Ravel, but when he explained the scope of the sundering, she had been sure. Whoever she had been, Emet-Selch had known them. Whoever she had been, he…had cared for them. Missed them. She must share some similarities, she thought. Enough that it pained him to look at her, even if he couldn’t pull his eyes away. She wondered, perhaps, if these feelings weren’t hers, were the lingering ghosts of who she had been, but…perhaps it didn’t matter. They were there, how she felt, and she wouldn’t deny it. Even if she still had to stop him, still would stop him, she didn’t want to deny this. Why deny herself something…one thing, one selfish thing, she should be allowed to have it. It wouldn’t stop her from doing what needed to be done, she knew that. So why not let herself have these feelings? 

She sat on the edge of the bed (huge and fluffy, fancy and elegant like the whole room) and rolled a fruit in her hand, something round and bright red— she wasn’t able to remember its name, but it was in a huge bowl of exotic fruit that sat on the table in the room, and it had looked interesting. She wasn’t sure how to eat it either, but it was something to do with her hands as she thought. The shutters were closed and the lamplight was low, and she could almost pretend it was night, but she wasn’t….she was exhausted, but she didn’t want to sleep. Didn’t think she could, with all the thoughts running through her head. So distracted was she, she didn’t notice when someone else entered the room — not that she would have heard him, as he didn’t use the door — and didn’t notice until a gloved hand reached to pluck the fruit from hers. She gasped, head shooting up, and he was there. “Emet—?” 

“A pomegranate,” he mused quietly. “Did you know there was a legend about this fruit, once? I can’t recall which empire, which kingdom. There have been so many over the eons. But I do recall the story. A spirit of nature lured deep into the land of the dead by its king…he offered her a fruit, and she ate it, and it bound her there as his consort for all eternity— but thanks to a certain hero, she was freed, but only partially…I believe it was supposed to explain the seasons, but who knows? Mortals make up the silliest stories to make sense of what they could never understand…”

Brona watched him a moment— he wasn’t looking at her, only the fruit, and she tilted her head before reaching and taking it back. “So what does that make us?” She asked him, voice low and daring and unafraid. “Are you the king of the dead, trying to lure me into your realm for eternity?” She openly eyed the fruit, rolling it in her hands. “I wonder what that spirit thought about it all. Was she lured there and tricked, did she mourn the loss of her freedom, or did she choose to go with him willingly, knowing that she risked it all if she did?” She paused, and then looked up at him, meeting pale gold eyes that watched her silently, that same sad pain in them as always. “Isn’t it a little strange, though, that he offered her a fruit? Why would there be fruit in the land of the dead?”

She stood, and on a whim, she held it out to him, still holding his gaze. “Maybe,” she said. “It was the nature spirit who offered him the fruit. Hoping to lure the lonely king of the dead out of his realm and into the world above, she followed him down and gave _him_ the fruit. I think I almost like that version better. What do you think, Emet-Selch?”

There was silence a moment, and for a brief second she thought worriedly she might have gone too far this time, but then a hand moved quickly to grab her wrist and pull her forward— the fruit rolled out of her hand and to the floor, forgotten, as she was pressed close to his chest; she could feel his heartbeat, his breathing, as if he were truly a flesh and blood man, and to her faint surprise she realized he smelled good, some unrecognizable scent that was strangely pleasing all the same, warm and earthy. “I think,” came his voice, so close she could feel his breath against her skin as she looked up to see him looking down at her. “That if you’re under the impression that you can _save_ me, hero, you’re sadly mistaken. I am tempered. You know as well as I there is nothing you can do, no matter how many pretty words you speak, no matter how misguidedly sincere your desire is.”

“I know that,” she replied, not moving from where he held her. “And I know that come tomorrow, come the next day, come whatever happens next, you are my enemy. What you want…I understand. I even sympathize. And I wish there were another way. But there isn’t, and that means I have to stop you, no matter how sincere _your_ desire is for us to cooperate.” Her eyes flickered away, but then she looked up at him, determined— it clearly caught him off guard, and his eyes widened slightly in turn. “But that’s tomorrow.” She said, gently. “For right now, for tonight, for this moment, can we pretend otherwise? Don’t tell me you don’t want to. I can see it in your eyes. I’ve always seen it.” She felt him stiffen at that, but she continued. “You’ve never been able to hide it from me. And I’m not stupid, _incomplete_ as I might be to your eyes. I can read between the lines. I might not know who, I might not know what…but I know you see someone else when you look at me.” She closed her eyes, giving him a moment to make whatever face he wanted, safe from her gaze. “I’m not them. You know as well as I that I’m not. But if you let me pretend for tonight that I can save you, that we aren’t enemies…”

Maybe it was selfish. Maybe it was wrong. Maybe it was cruel to both of them, to let him pretend she was whoever he once cared for, to ask him to let her pretend they could be more…but it was only this moment. Only now. Tomorrow they would be enemies again. Tomorrow they would fight, or whatever came after Vauthry’s fall. But maybe it was more cruel to simply let this go, whatever this was or could be, and never even give themselves the chance to taste it. Something she could carry with her even if she ended up having to strike him down, something she could hold onto. Something…one thing, one moment of happiness to fight back the shadows of his eons of pain and loss. Where they didn’t have to be a monster or a Warrior of Light. Where—

And then he kissed her. 

Whatever thoughts she’d had flew out of her head, eyes shooting open— clearly he’d made his own choice on the matter, on her offer, and it was— his hand was still around her wrist, but his other came up to cup her face, holding it still as his lips claimed hers. It was…she’d never been kissed like this, she thought dazedly, unable to think much more than that as she returned it. It was dizzying, intense and desperate and needy, like it was, like _she _was something intrinsic to his survival, like she was the most important thing in the world. No one had ever kissed her like she was this needed, this important, and she melted into it, legs no longer able to hold her weight. Not that she needed to, as she distantly registered him backing her up the few steps into the bed, and distantly felt the backs of her legs bumping against it. She fell backwards easily, and felt his hands pinning hers to the bed— she didn’t know how far this would go, but crazily, dazedly, dizzily she thought she wouldn’t care at all, no matter how far it went. To be wanted, to be needed like this, even if it was just— even if it was just him seeing the shadow of the person he had once cared for, once _loved _if this was any indication, it— _she_ needed that. 

The weight of his hands vanished for a moment, and heady with the thrill of the kiss she made to fling her arms around his neck, digging fingers into the back of his coat and pulling him closer to her. She could hear, distant, the sound of his boots scuffing on the floor as he lost his balance, feel the weight of him as he fell against her, but she didn’t care at all. Only when his hands returned to her, warm bare flesh brushing against her arms to pull her loose, did any coherent thought return— _he’d removed his gloves,_ was her first thought, and then she gasped as he broke the kiss, breathing heavily and dizzy, blinking like she’d just woken up as she tried to focus on what was going on now. He was still leaning over her, against her, his own face flushed and breath coming in gasps, but there was something strange in his eyes, not that sad-pained recognition but something she was too out of it to name. 

“What…what did this?” He asked, his voice quiet, and it took her a moment to realize what he was asking. A moment to remember she was in her nightgown, not her usual clothes, a loose sleeveless thing that did nothing to hide the vicious old scars on her arms, the scars she’d gained over the three years she’d been imprisoned in that place, the study halls that had tormented and tortured her until she had been given to…well, that didn’t bear thinking of tonight. It was enough that the scars were visible, and it was those his eyes had landed on, those his fingers pressed against. They were painful scars, streaks of burns and crackles of lightning-scars twining around her arms, discolored patches and blotches where cruel magic stained her skin, marks of all they had done. Her cheeks colored, though it wasn’t shame— she could never be ashamed, knowing the reason she had gained them— it…she simply…it was hard to find the words to explain.

“…it doesn’t matter,” she murmured finally, shifting her other hand to rest atop where his lingered over one of the many scars. “I don’t remember. It all blurs together after a while. But it’s alright. If it wasn’t me, it would have been children, and I will never regret a single one of these that I gained instead of them.” She felt him shudder against her, and his head fell to tuck against her, pressed into the crook of her neck. Absently, she moved her hand again to rest in his hair, short and soft, and stroked it gently. “If it makes you feel any better,” she began with a wry smile he couldn’t see. “That was _after_ I killed two people who’d been doing some rather unpleasant things. I can’t imagine I’d been very popular to begin with.”

A muffled laugh escaped him, then, and he was quiet a moment, before he spoke, and she fell silent to listen. “…you are so like her, sometimes,” he said quietly, voice more mortal and real than she’d ever heard it before. “Your compassion, your kindness…that heroic selflessness of yours…I see her in you, then. But— then you say things like _that_ and it— you are someone else entirely, someone I don’t know. Someone wild and mad and brave and sharp-tongued and nothing like she was…” His voice grew pained, and…she thought perhaps it wasn’t grief that sharpened that pain, but uncertainty. “I…”

“Don’t think about it too hard,” she told him gently. “It’s not something you can find an answer to immediately, I think. But…” She trailed off thoughtfully, hand still in his hair. “…is it someone you _want_ to know?” She asked at last, uncertainty coloring her own voice. “Because…I would very much like to know you, for what it’s worth. For what time we have in this moment.”

He was silent for a moment, long enough that her breath caught in her throat, but then he shifted back to look at her again, and though his eyes and face were completely unreadable, he watched her for a moment, and then leaned in to kiss her again. It was gentler this time, still needy but not quite so desperate, and he broke it quicker to meet her gaze with his. “That’s an answer I don’t know that I can give you, my dear,” he admitted, voice quiet, and she didn’t think she could blame him for that. “But you are…not someone I would _dislike_ knowing. That much I can say.” He shifted to cup her face with a hand, and she leaned into it automatically. “…for tonight, perhaps, though….I can say yes.”

A moment of silence came after that, but it wasn’t that taut silence of the last few times, where the whole world stilled and froze and waited— just a gentle silence, as they watched each other, eyes soft, just for this moment. Things would be left unsaid, forever left unspoken, she knew that. Tomorrow would come and they would be at odds again, and in the end she may well have to kill him, and they would never really know what could have been. But for right now, they could pretend that whatever this is has a future.

Music floated up from below, a bright and jaunty tune, and she laughed, shaking her head as they both shifted to sit up and listen. “Celebrating their freedom, perhaps?” She wondered aloud, amused. “I think it’s been going on and off all night. A bit preemptive, I guess, but I don’t think Eulmorans need an excuse.” That got a chuckle out of him, and he shook his head. 

“They don’t,” he said quietly, and watched the shutters quietly, where the music came muffled in from, before standing abruptly, turning to face her and pull her to her feet as well. “Do you know how to dance?” He asked suddenly, and she blinked at him, the embarrassed flush on her face answer enough. He smiled at that, then, and tugged her out into the open area of the floor between bed and table. “You’re free to step on my feet as much as you like,” he told her, and paused to listen to the song end— the next one was a waltz, she knew that much, and he laughed quietly again, moving to place her hands where they were supposed to go, his hand taking her waist, and he pulled her into the dance. It was awkward, at first, her bare feet stumbling to keep up with his easy steps, and she found herself red and embarrassed and pouting as he laughed at her, though it wasn’t very genuine— his smile and the warmth that sparkled in his eyes was something she knew she never would see again, and she wanted to memorize it, enjoy it to its fullest. To enjoy all of this, this wonderful night where someone wanted her, needed her, where she could pretend he loved her, or that he could. That they could…they couldn’t. She knew it. But for tonight, for this moment, as they laughed and danced in this room in Eulmore, with the eternal light beating down outside the window…

For tonight, they could both have a taste of the thing they would never be able to keep. Their forbidden fruit, their time together before they were separated again, the king of the dead and the spirit of nature. Though unlike that story, they would never see one another again after this. It was no cycle of seasons, not this tale, no faerie story that had a good ending. But for tonight, for tonight they could pretend.

For tonight they could laugh and dance until they wore themselves out, tumbling back onto the bed where they lay curled up together, still laughing and talking about nothing, about anything at all, about the inane and silly things that had nothing to do with who they had to be in the morning — and stealing kisses — until exhausted, she dozed off in his arms. 

In the morning, she would wake up alone, the only sign he had ever been there the covers tucked neatly around her and the pomegranate sitting on the pillow beside her head. In the morning, it would be over.

But…she would have that night, that one night, forever. And…whatever happened next, at least she had that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> am i at all sorry for shamelessly and explicitly using the hades/persephone myth? no
> 
> am i also sorry for the absolute angsty angstfest this is going to turn into because PHEW as cute as this was, in a way, my heart hurts??? no
> 
> (edging into why the fic is titled as it is, too, haha....)


	5. never enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _towers of gold are still too little / these hands could hold the world but it'll / never be enough_

This wasn’t how she wanted it to end. Not that...she didn’t know it had to end. She’d always known. But this...this isn’t right. This isn’t _fair_. 

How was she supposed to find it in her to kill him when she was seeing his pain and grief laid bare before her in this illusory city with its illusory people, when he was showing them all what he’d lost, the grandeur and glory of the home he was fighting to bring back? Wouldn’t they all do the same? The shades were so kind, so sweet, so innocent--- the _world_ had been so innocent, back then. They would never have been able to understand the end times, never be able to understand the cost of calling Zodiark until it was too late. And maybe it’s because of that...it’s because of that, that Emet-Selch can’t see the good in anyone anymore. He was born into this innocent world, this kind and clever place, and even tempered, even with eons having passed, part of him--- it can’t see the good in the world that exists now, because this world isn’t innocent. It can’t be. No one can be as innocent as the people of Amaurot, and because of that, he believes no one can be _good_. She could tell that much from the way he’s always spoken.

But it has to end, even if she didn’t want it to. She was dying, after all, the light in her too much for a mortal body to bear (and is that what he’d been hoping for? that she would hold it and bear it and prove herself that woman he’d loved, prove herself more than mortal, like the people he longed to see again?), and, well...this was all she could do, now. But she’d do it. She’d do it because she had to, because she chose to stop something that could harm so many people, and she would hold the memory of their one night of pretending close to her for the rest of her life. If that was all she ever got, then...it was a memory she would treasure.

And she hoped he would hold it close to him, too, for however long left he had to live. The memory still burns, recent as it was--- the talk with the shade in the Secretariat building, Hythlodaeus...telling her who she’d been. Kore, he’d said gently. Her name had been Kore, and Emet-Selch had loved her. The rest of the conversation had been enlightening, important, but that..._that_ was what stuck. She had guessed, already, that whoever she’d been had been...important to him, and their night of pretending had confirmed it, but to hear it spoken, to hear it laid out like that---_ she had been his lover_\--- was...it was tragic, in the true sense of the word. The woman he’d loved was gone (and if her guess was right, had betrayed him in the going, in a way), and...all that was left was fragments, scattered across shards. Fragments and _her._ Brona. Someone he maybe could have loved, were it not for his pain and the tempering. Were it not for the fact that they could _never_ be. They could have loved each other, but...in the end, it comes to this. Opposite sides, for all eternity. The line drawn in the sand, and neither of them could cross it. 

She knew she had to get back to the Capitol, to find G’raha, to...to end it, but she....needed a minute. Things were going to happen fast, once she got there, and she wanted...just a few more minutes in this city, just in case it faded into nothing but memories. Just a little more time.

Her feet led her down streets and past shades, oblivious to their ephemeral existence and to the end that was coming for them, and she didn’t really think about where she was going, or if she was going anywhere at all. It didn’t seem to matter. She stopped eventually, though, trailing to a halt at the head of another too-large ramp, these leading down into...into a garden. It was clearly a public park sort of garden, trees and bushes and flowers lining winding paths dotted with benches, but it was beautiful. Oddly empty, though--- not a single shade strode the paths or sat on the benches...but it was there, and she headed down towards it. Would any flowers she picked stay, she wondered absently, trailing her hand along the low fence that lined the pathway. Or would they vanish upon leaving, fading in her hands like they had never existed at all? Like this city, like its people, had never existed at all. Like...like she would have to strike down Emet-Selch, and then all he would be was memories, and there would only be one soul left in existence that remembered this place firsthand. And they would have to kill him, too, and then there would be no one at all. That thought hurts.

She rounded a corner, then, and stopped. There was a small artificial lake there in the center of the small park, surrounded by a rainbow of flowers with a single bench nearby, and standing at its edge...standing at its edge was the man himself. A bowed figure with red hair, staring out across the lake with his back to her. She watched him for a long moment, uncertain, and--- no. This would be the last time they would ever be able to speak to one another like this. When next they spoke it would be at the Capitol, and they would be enemies. But right now, right now they could be something else, for the last time. And she would take it.

She approached him silently, moving to stand beside him on the shore, and stood quiet with him, not sure if he registered her presence but appreciating his all the same. Eventually, though, she reached for his hand and took it, wrapping her hand in his gently--- not squeezing it, or doing more than that, but simply holding it. They stood there like that for several more long moments, before he broke the silence.

“....this was one of her favorite places,” he said quietly. “We would come here and sit for hours, talking about nothing. She Created butterflies, you know. There were dozens here, and she would be so excited to show me new ones they’d released into the gardens, show me what she’d made...” He trailed off, and eventually she heard him shift, and looked up to see him looking at her, open desperation on his face, that sad-pained look taking over his expression entirely; no more secrets of who she was, who he saw. “You found it,” he said, all but pleading. “Of all places, you found this one. You...” He couldn’t finish, but the desperate plea in his eyes, his face, was enough for her to understand.

She turned to face him, reaching to take his other hand, and looked up at him, watching the desperation in his eyes, the plea, the denials. He wanted so badly for her to be the woman he loved, didn’t he? He wanted her to be Kore, he wanted everything to go back to the way it was. He wanted his home, his people, exactly how it was before. And because he was tempered...because he was tempered, he couldn’t see that that could never happen. There was so much blood already on the hands she held, so many things that he could never be forgiven for, things he couldn’t see as wrong...and all for a cause he could never accept as impossible. They were gone. This place, these people, it was gone. Kore was gone. Even if the Ascians were to rejoin the other shards, even if she and everyone else were whole again...she wouldn’t--- she couldn’t be Kore. She would still be Brona, no matter how many pieces of her soul she held. He couldn’t see it. He _refused_ to see it. And...she couldn’t entirely blame him for that, could she? He’d lived with this grief for eons, drowned in it like these ruins had drowned in the Tempest. How could he see, how could he want to see? He was tempered, true, but even tempered...

“I’m sorry,” she told him, gentle and soft, squeezing his hands. “I’m not her. I can’t be her. I don’t want to be her. I’m _me_. She and I...we might be similar, and I don’t mind that. We have the same soul, of course we’d have things in common. But I’m...not her. I’m sorry.” He tore his gaze from her, then, looking away, and she let him. “I know you won’t listen to me, but...it’s alright if I’m not her, isn’t it? I am my own person. Someone a little like her, maybe, but not...” She trailed off, not sure what she wanted to say. “...I still ended up with the same feelings about you,” she pointed out quietly, at length. “So isn’t that enough?” 

She was selfish, she knew it. Selfish and desperate to be needed, to be wanted, for someone to love her and her alone, to mean something to someone the way she never had before. To fill the hole in her with the love of someone she loved in return, the hole torn open with the loss of her parents, her brother, the child that had never even taken a breath...she was selfish, to want something like that. She had friends who loved her, she had friends who she meant something to. She shouldn’t still want more. She...shouldn’t still _need_ more. But she did. And yet...and yet when it came to this, to the feelings that burned in her breast for the man before her...she drew a line. Perhaps she was selfish, perhaps she was desperate, perhaps there was the same plea in her eyes and her voice, but--- she couldn’t pretend to be someone she was not. Not even to gain the love of someone who needed her to be that person. That was...too cruel, to both of them. She couldn’t...she couldn’t. Not this time. 

There was quiet, then, as she looked away, and she knew the answer was no. He didn’t have to say; she’d known when she asked him. She knew it couldn’t be enough. And knowing that didn’t even hurt, not really. How could she ever be enough? She was a fragment, not her, and even then he was tempered, and carrying so much grief and pain...she could never be enough to fix that, or even make a dent.

But...she felt him tug her forward, and she looked back up into his eyes, and there was something there, something almost vulnerable, hurting and raw and somehow frightened, and for a moment she thought perhaps she was looking at the man beneath the tempering. “...I wish it were enough,” he told her quietly. “I wish it could be enough. There is..._so much_ I wish had been enough. I’ve spent eons searching for--- that very thing. For something that was _enough_.” Maybe not just love, Brona thought, but...a reason to stop. A reason to go ‘this world is alright, it’s a world that can stay’. A reason for this broken place to be enough for his grieving soul. “But I _can’t find it_. Nothing can ever...” He trailed off, a sort of helplessness on his face for a moment that he shook away, and she thought she might understand. But there was nothing she could do for him. That...that was it, in the end. There was nothing she could do.

They stood there for a moment, looking at each other, knowing that this moment was the last, their last. That when it ended, she would leave, and he would follow, and they would meet again as enemies, and it would all come to an end, and one or both of them would never walk away.

On a whim, a desperate daring whim, she leaned up to press her lips to his, brief and gentle and quick, and pulled away. “I’m sorry,” she echoed again, letting go of his hands. “That you couldn’t find it. I’m sorry it has to go this way. I’m sorry I’m not her. I’m...” She closed her eyes and stepped back, once. “I could have loved you,” she confessed. “I could have...I think part of me already does. And I’m sorry it isn’t enough. But...I think you could have loved me, if it was. And no matter how this ends, I’ll treasure that. More than you know.” 

That said, she turned to leave, trying--- no, she wouldn’t cry. She would save those tears for after the end. Even if she almost swore she heard his voice echo behind her--- _I’m sorry, too_. They were both sorry, then. It could have been something, but in the end...in the end, it just wasn’t enough. No amount of love in the world could free him, or save him, and...he would try to destroy them, destroy her, and she would fight back, and it would end. And she knew it had to be that way, but...that didn’t stop it from hurting. All she could do was fight, and hope that maybe he could...maybe he could rest, at the very least. Maybe he could find peace.

(And if, in the end, in that soft light, watching him watch her, watching him ask her to remember...watching him smile at her...she thought she heard him say _this is enough_? Well...she would cry when she was alone.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and there it is
> 
> am i sorry? no, i say, crying like an idiot
> 
> i really do think that part of emet that wasn't tempered wanted...he wanted something to be enough, something to have that would let him say "this is enough, this is alright, this new world is enough for me, i can stop". all those mortal lives, and all that...but he was tempered, and he was grieving, and he couldn't.
> 
> and that's really sad.


End file.
